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by nahco3



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-29
Updated: 2011-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:44:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>South Africa is a long way from Sevilla.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to ashirbaad for the beta. this was originally posted at my lj.

Jesus lies on his bed, watching Sergio unpack, because he’s too tired to unpack himself, and too lazy to turn on the tv. They’re rooming together, since del Bosque has very strict ideas about room sharing to “develop team cohesion independent of club team lines” and an equally strict no switching policy. Jesus doesn’t mind; he likes Sergio. Maybe even a little too much.

Sergio hums to himself as he shoves shirts into a drawer. Jesus lies back on the bed and stares at the ceiling, figuring it’s probably best for his sanity if he doesn’t watch Sergio too closely. The thing is, Sergio isn’t objectively attractive, and if Jesus was prepared to admit, even to himself, that he had a “type,” Sergio wouldn’t be it. But. But. Sergio believes - with a resolution touchingly untinged by vanity - that he is a very good looking person; irresistible, in fact. And because of this belief, he somehow is that good looking, and things like his perennially-slicked-back hair and his (objectively, very large) nose become more than the sum of their parts. If most people looked like Sergio, they would not be nearly as attractive as him, Jesus thinks, a bit incoherently.

Sergio taps Jesus on the shoulder.

“Hey, Navas, I’m heading down to the pool. Wanna come?”

Jesus saw the hotel pool while the team was checking in, and his curiosity doesn’t extend much beyond that. Besides, best not to see Sergio Ramos in a bathing suit on the first night they were rooming together, all things considered. So Sergio leaves, one polite excuse from Jesus later, with Jesus’ pilfered towel over one shoulder.

Jesus turns on the tv, to the news. He can’t understand anything - it isn’t in Spanish, obviously - but he watches the progression of images idly anyway. Then the weather comes on. At first it’s just a map of South Africa, with little suns and rain clouds pasted over various cities. But then the camera pulls out, and Jesus can see all of Africa, and, peaking down in the upper left corner of the screen, a tiny slice of the Iberian peninsula. Even though he knows he shouldn’t, he looks for Sevilla on the map, and began frantically judging the distance between here and home.

He feels a bubble of panic rise in his chest and catch in his throat. He pulls his knees to his chest and looks down at them, struggling to remind himself he’s ok. Nothing to panic about Jesus, you’re just five thousand miles from home, playing in the biggest tournament of your life. No pressure; you’ll be fine and you certainly won’t irrevocably fuck up and cause Spain another crushing defeat. Especially since you’re so calm and collected, not the kind of pathetic person who panics for no reason.

His breathing speeds up; he can feel himself getting lightheaded. But his throat seems too narrow, like something’s trapped in his windpipe that he can’t breath around. He struggles with the desire to shut himself in the bathroom; the need to be somewhere smaller and more secure nearly overwhelming him.

“I want to go home,” he whispers to himself. He tries not to think about how pathetic that makes him.

Sergio opens the door, and Jesus flinches away from the sound before he can stop himself. He looks up, eyes too wide, and he knows he can’t keep his panic off his face. Sergio’s still humming, a different song now, and his hair is soaked from the pool. He looks up and his eyes meet Jesus’ before Jesus can look back down.

Sergio’s sitting on the bed next to Jesus before Jesus has time to process what’s happened. “You ok?” he asks, so close to Jesus that Jesus can smell the chlorine on his skin.

Jesus can’t think of anything to say - what is there to say? - but he wishes that he were still alone, and he wishes that Sergio would move closer to him. He shrugs. Sergio inches closer to Jesus, and the mattress dips so their hips brush together.

“Wanna talk about it?” Sergio asks. Jesus feels sorry for him; this probably wasn’t what he thought he’d come back to.

Jesus shrugs again. “There isn’t much to say.” Sergio looks sideways at him, pushing his wet hair out of his eyes. Jesus shuts his eyes and takes another deep breath, feeling too lost.

Then Sergio puts his arm over Jesus’ shoulder, heavy and warm. “When I miss home,” Sergio says, after a period of silence during which Jesus struggles to match his breathing with Sergio’s, “I listen to flamenco.” He reaches over to the bedside table and grabs his iPod, sticking an earbud in his ear and handing the other to Jesus. His eyes are dark and earnest, so Jesus takes the earbud, even though he knows what’s wrong with him won’t be cured by anything this simple.

Sergio cues up a song and turns the volume up, singing along tunelessly. Jesus recognizes the tune, but not the words. He curls into Sergio’s warmth, trying to hide himself in it, and in the music, so his endlessly circling thoughts will leave him be. Sergio pulls him in tighter, and it’s like home, a little bit.


End file.
